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Wildewood
Message on Selection Suddenly your spirit quakes with this newfound knowledge - what are you? You are not what you have long known yourself to be, shimmering motes of energy twirling in the air about you, rising up and down as they sway in a soft, steady cadence. Small sprouts of birch and oak and hornbeam rise up between your toes, growing rapidly into saplings and then into something more, longer and twisting. Your eyes roll back in your head as you feel soft, waxy tendrils pressing outwards from deep within you, pushing away what you were and then enveloping it, consigning it to a deep slumber. The soft rustle of wind in the leaves - no, not any leaves, the leaves of the Mother Moonhart - fills your hearing. Is it not dead? Is it alive? Does it still grow? Yes, something within you answers. What am I? Your question echoes into your being, nearly forgotten, nearly abandoned. You are not, comes the answer. Your eyes flutter open and the world comes into view once more, shrinking, falling away from you - or are you rising? No, you are not rising. Growing! Yes, that is it, something within you answers. Your soul, the core of your being. What am I? Your question is quickly answered. Sleeping. You begin to forget - elfen? Faeling? Igasho? Perhaps. You realise with a near start a soft chanting that has long underlain the wind, one that fills your hearing. Silvery voices, whispering, full of promise, potential. Desperation lingers at the edge of their voice. A steady beat pulses just beyond your perception, a cadence, wild and almost untamed, rising and falling in rhythms that at first seem too erratic to comprehend, yet as you grow you become more in tune with them. Cycles. It all is a cycle, existing and not existing, living and not living, growing and aging, predator and prey, dying and then birthing. It is Nature, all about you! Yes, filling your being, becoming one with you. You groan, heavily. You creak. You turn, but so slowly. Your roots pull at the soil, pleading to be free. Free? Roots? Yes, roots, the answer comes. The sound of chittering excitement echoes in the air as you feel squirrels crawl up your trunk and into your hair - no, not hair, eaves - quickly making their home. Roots? Trunk? Eaves? What am I? Your question goes unanswered. Of course. I am the memory of the Serenwilde, sap and soil and blossom and branch, bark and root, nuts and berries, leaves and twigs, hope and dream, impossible made possible. I am Wildewood. Message on Forget As you abandon the memories of the Wildewood you feel your body fall away, sloughed off as the dreams of a long slumber. You rouse, rubbing the wild sleep from your eyes, pressing the memories of what isn't, what wasn't supposed to be, from your being. Yes, that is true. You are not that thing, that beautiful thing, that potential you no longer will be. You finally open your eyes and find yourself surrounded by bits of dead wood, rapidly speeding through the cycle of life, becoming food for new life, that other things may grow. For every beginning comes from an ending. This is the cycle, you tell yourself, though the sorrow of what you are not fills you still.